


and kisses are a better fate than wisdom

by youareiron_andyouarestrong



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Discussions of Wounds, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 01:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8825392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youareiron_andyouarestrong/pseuds/youareiron_andyouarestrong
Summary: Tina Goldstein takes care of everyone. She can’t entirely help it, after basically raising Queenie, being head girl at the Pukwudgie house at Ilvermony, one of the oldest of the new group of Aurors in training. Tina Goldstein is the one who you go to when you need a spare charmed handkerchief, a nickel for a cup of coffee, an extra warming spell, a willing shoulder to listen to or tea and sympathy. 
...Newt Scamander needs a damn leash, also possibly a knock over the head, though in the muddle after the Barebones and Graves affair (as it’s being referred to now), he looks he’s already gotten several of those.
(in which Tina is given the opportunity to review Newt's scars--and possibly look after them.)





	

* * *

 

_since feeling is first_

_who pays any attention_

_to the syntax of things_

_will never wholly kiss you,_

_wholly to be a fool_

_while Spring is in the world..._

\--e.e. cummings

* * *

 

Tina Goldstein takes care of everyone. She can’t entirely help it, after basically raising Queenie, being head girl at the Pukwudgie house at Ilvermony, one of the oldest of the new group of Aurors in training. Tina Goldstein is the one who you go to when you need a spare charmed handkerchief, a nickel for a cup of coffee, an extra warming spell, a willing shoulder to listen to or tea and sympathy. 

“You mother everyone,” says Queenie, not without a certain gentle sisterly exasperation. “How’re you ever gonna get a fella if you keep acting like everyone’s older sister?”

“I don’t _need_  a fella,” says Tina with all the dignity she can muster. “Anyways, it’s against regulations to date a fellow Auror, you know that.” 

“There’s a lot more fellas out there than just _Aurors,_  you know,” Queenie retorts.

“Yeah, like house elves,” says Tina cynically. “Maybe one of those goblins I arrested last week.”

Queenie sighs, rolls her eyes, lifts her hands in the air dramatically. “What’s going to happen to you when I’m gone?” she asks the ceiling theatrically, an alarmingly good imitation of Tina herself, to which Tina responds by spelling a cushion to hit her ridiculous little sister in the face. 

* * *

 

Newt Scamander needs a damn _leash,_ also possibly a knock over the head, though in the muddle after the Barebones and Graves affair (as it’s being referred to now), he looks he’s already gotten several of those.

Tina, being now a newly restored Auror (she hopes?), assumes control of over the situation, once she gets a nod of confirmation from Madame Seraphina. She sets Aurors to restore damage to the buildings, others to mend the streets where the Obscurial ( _Credence,_ that was Credence, she must not forget) tore them apart, she sends for healers to tend to Newt, who looks more battered than any one person should and wishes hopelessly, uselessly, for something to mend that shattered look on her little sister’s face.

But there is nothing in any world, magical or otherwise, except maybe time itself and even then Tina’s not so sure. For now, she focuses on what she _can_ tend to, mainly, the state of Newt’s forehead and cheekbone, bruises on both of them.    

 He’s leaning against the wall of the MACUSA building, gazing at the overcast sky outside, as if still scanning for Frank. The enchanted rain pours down and Tina thinks of Jacob, a forlorn and damp figure, wandering around the pouring streets of Manhattan in confusion. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and then another and steps forward, placing her hand on gingerly on Newt’s shoulder to get his attention. He jerks upright, blinking at her like he’s never seen her before. “C’mon,” she urges him gently, “let’s get you looked at.”

“My creatures,” he starts, looking around for his suitcase, and Tina tugs him gently away.

“You’ll be of more use to them if you’ve been patched up,” she says firmly and he gives in. Any other argument, she thinks, wouldn’t have worked.

* * *

In the medical wing, a healer, crisp in a white and grey uniform, presses her thumbs to the bruises on Newt’s forehead and cheekbone, and they slowly shrink and fade into pale skin again. “Beautiful control,” Newt murmurs. “May I ask where you learned it?”

The healer, a young black woman, shrugs. “Had it from my mama, who had it from _her_ mama. Slaves weren’t allowed wands.”

“Of course,” Newt says, shutting his eyes. “May I compliment you on your technique?”

The healer spares Newt a glance. “You can if you want, Mr. English.” She sounds more amused than curious. “You got anything else I need to know about?”

“His ribs,” Tina says, unable to help herself, it’s not her job to take care of him, and yet– “He took a hard hit from the–from Credence.”

Newt’s head tilts in her direction but doesn’t contest it. The healer briskly, efficiently helps Newt out of his coat and pauses when he lets out a hiss as he tries to stretch his arms. The healer looks at Tina. “He needs another set of hands.”

Tina waits for Newt’s barely there nod and weary murmur of, “I _suppose_ ,” before stepping forward and carefully helping him out of his coat, she does not blush, she does _not._ He tries to manage the waistcoat buttons on his own, but can’t quite get them undone. The healer gives Tina a significant look. Taking a deep breath, steeling herself, Tina moves in front of him, gently bats his hands away. He raises them in a startled manner, blinking bewilderedly at her, not unlike a startled owl. “Let me,” she says and undoes them as quickly and efficiently as she can, carefully tugs off the yellow tweed. All that’s left is his shirt now, once a crisp white, now grimy and grubby. “I can manage this, I think, Auror Goldstein,” says Newt quietly and Tina bites the inside of her cheek at the sudden use of her title.

“If you’re sure,” she says finally and steps away, forcing her hands into the pockets of her coat.

The healer pulls the shirt off Newt, utterly unconcerned by his torso and Tina bites on the inside of her cheek harder.

He’s…stronger than she expected, more muscled than she would’ve assumed, with his wiry build and unassuming posture. But other than that, there are the truly impressive bruises on his rib cage and back, already violently purple and black, and then…there are the scars.

These are old wounds, much faded into new skin, but quite visible. A long line across his torso, another across his chest. Some needle-like marks on his forearms. A new scar, on his right shoulder, a rounded mark. Something that looks like…like claw marks on his back, from his right shoulder all the way down to his left side. Tina’s own skin aches in sympathy at the thought of it. She averts her gaze as the healer impersonally puts her hands on Newt’s ribs and his skin contracts at the touch automatically. Gives him as much privacy as they can afford in this small space.

Tina has never wanted to be anything but an Auror, ever since she was a little girl, but Pukwudgie house more often than not produces healers, good ones, and there’s always been that instinct in her fingers, that itch to set things right, to ease suffering or pain. That’s the reason she’d even gotten mixed up with the Second Salemers, why she’d been the one to nearly hex Mary Lou Barebone into next week, especially when she saw the state of Credence’s hands, his hunched shoulders. She’d hated it, hated seeing kids suffer, especially at the hands of someone like Barebone who acted like they should be _grateful_ for the beatings, the crappy food, the hateful rhetoric about freaks or hidden dangers. Her eyes go to Newt again, involuntarily. The fresh bruises fading already, the old scars still visible.

She thinks of an ointment she has that her mother brewed, one of the last one of hers that she still has, the one that soothes the aches and pains of their father after coming from a long day, who never questioned why his wife’s potions and teas seemed to produce such remarkable results in such a short time. She and Queenie guarded that little jar of ointment like it was worth more gold in all of New York, and maybe it was. Her mind goes off in another direction, a memory of dabbing that ointment on her sister’s forehead as a little girl and kissing the mark there lightly, an old habit.

She thinks of putting that ointment on Newt’s back, where the worst of the scars are, and putting her lips to the marks in hopes of soothing and everything goes shivery and tight inside her at the thought, and she can’t _begin_ to think about that, she can’t.  

“You’re done now, Mr. English,” says the healer briskly and lets her hands drop from Newt’s side and back. Tina takes a deep breath and steps forward, helps Newt into his shirt again, his waistcoat. He does up the buttons himself, wincing slightly and Tina’s hands itch to do something.

* * *

It takes five years, a war, an incident with a unicorn and a loose dragon in the subways before Tina gets the chance to do anything about Newt’s scars and even then, because he is _Newt_ , he has to go and make things difficult.

“Hush,” Tina commands absently, putting the jar of ointment on the bed next to them. “Honestly, you big baby, you act like I’m going to remove a limb.”

“I just don’t understand the _necessity_ of it,” Newt retorts, his voice slightly muffled by the pillows and sheets of the bed. “They’ve long since been healed.”

Tina sighs and screws the lid of the jar. “I know they ache when it rains, Newt. You’re always shifting uncomfortably when it does.”

Newt sighs and lets his head fall against the mattress again. “Tina dear, sometimes your powers of perception truly frighten me.”

“As well they should,” she says tartly and frowns at the contents of the jar. It’s almost empty now, this last potion of her mother’s. She glances at Newt’s back, at his scars and thinks, _worthy cause._

She spreads it on carefully and watches in satisfaction as he jerks slightly in surprise at the coolness, but then relaxes, the muscles in his back going loose. The scars don’t go away or fade, but the tension leaks out of his shoulders, his breathing gets easier. The potion is almost gone by the time she is done with his back and she gently nudges his side. “Turn over,” she says softly and he does, as lazily as a cat in a patch of sunshine.

She dabs it on his chest, his shoulder, his torso. He stirs underneath her touch and smiles sleepily at her through a fringe of auburn bangs and absurdly long lashes. Tina gives him one quick, fond smile before smoothing the last of it over his heart, rubbing it into his skin. He has freckles there, she notes, a match to the ones scattered across his cheekbones and shoulders. “There,” she says, her voice lower and softer than usual. “All better.” Working on an impulse, she bends over and kisses the place where his heart beats, the ointment leaving a slight taste of lavender and a tingling in her lips.

Newt reaches out and cups her cheek with his hand, one thumb fondly brushing over the arch of her cheekbone. “Look, it’s a miracle,” he says solemnly, though she can see humor in his eyes, “I’m completely cured.”

Tina huffs with amusement and Newt smiles at her affectionately and Tina lets him pull her close, curls up next to him, half purring in contentment. “Dear,” he says against the top of her head, kissing her there, “thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> apparently, there was supposed to have been a scene where we gifted with shirtless!Newt, but sadly, it was cut for plot reasons (probably for the best, really), so I couldn't help but want to explore that a little here.


End file.
